


Revisited

by Riona



Series: Visitorverse [12]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The visits have ended, haven't they?</p>
<p>(Yet more scenes from the never-ending Visitorverse, in which we're rapidly running out of viable titles. These are set post-<i>Homecoming</i> and might feature a few new faces.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: if you haven't read VampireBadger's [_Homecoming_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599084), you should definitely do that, because it's great and these scenes are going to spoil it.
> 
> _Revisited_ is specifically for my writing post- _Homecoming_ ; if I happen to write any more pre- _Homecoming_ scenes, they'll go in the unfortunately-titled [_Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4608768). If it's getting hard to keep track of everything in this 'verse, it's possible to subscribe to updates on the [Visitorverse series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/323396).
> 
> And now it's time for NEW DEVELOPMENTS.

Desmond gets up in the night to double-check the locks; he’s never felt safer than he does now, in a house full of legendary Assassins (and two legendary Templars – it’s still strange when he stops to think about it), but he can’t always quiet the paranoid hiss in his mind. He looks back at Elena, to be sure she’s still sleeping peacefully, and then makes for the door.

The room bursts into light before he’s gone three steps, and he throws up his hand to shield his eyes.

Wait. This isn’t his room. Is it? Not unless he’s seriously redecorated and invited a load of people in period costume for a party.

Desmond looks instantly behind himself. No bed. No Elena.

Okay. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. It’s just a visit; it has to be. It’ll pass.

But who is he visiting? And why _now_? He hasn’t had any visits since the day the world didn’t end, and he’s pretty sure the others haven’t been visiting since they came to join him in his time.

This looks like some kind of fancy European house to him, so Ezio’s his best guess. But he can’t actually see Ezio, looking around.

What _can_ he see?

There’s a small crowd of people off to the side, blocking the corridor, so densely packed he can’t make out what they’re looking at. Desmond takes a half-step toward them, and then something else catches his attention: the only three people who are moving _away_ from the scene.

A small boy. Desmond thinks he’s upset; his expression is blank, he doesn’t really look aware of where he is, but he’s shaking. A man – his father, Desmond guesses – with his arm around the kid, talking to him quietly. And a red-haired girl walking alongside them, looking anxiously at the boy; she’s probably his sister.

Someone else is watching those three, Desmond registers out of the corner of his eye. His heart stutters with recognition when he looks up. Shay.

For a moment he thinks the mystery’s solved, or part of it, at least; he’s here visiting Shay.

But... no, wait. It looks like Shay is dressed in his modern clothes; he seems out-of-place in this house full of frock coats and hoop skirts. None of this makes any sense.

Well, maybe Shay will know what’s going on, at least. It’s good to see someone familiar.

“Shay!” Desmond calls.

Shay looks up at him. And Desmond sees the look on Shay’s face, the sheer _horror_ there, and he knows that something is seriously, seriously wrong.

A moment later, Desmond is back in his room, Elena mumbling in her sleep behind him.

The first thing Desmond does is touch Elena’s hair, gently, to make sure he’s here and she’s here and she’s still real. Then he slips out of his room and creeps along to the one Shay and Aveline share.

He hesitates outside. He’s being ridiculous.

But he knocks anyway.

There’s stirring inside the room, and a brief exchange of voices; he can hear both Shay and Aveline. Good. Good. There have been many occasions on which he’s wished this room had better soundproofing, but he’s grateful for the lack now.

A moment later, the door creaks open and Aveline, wrapped in a bathrobe, looks out.

“Desmond,” she says, looking relieved. She tucks the knife she’s holding into her pocket. “Is something wrong?”

“Not really,” Desmond says. She looks good. Well; she looks well. “Are you okay?”

“Is there some reason I might not be?”

“I just...” He hesitates. “It’s stupid. I had a dream about Shay. He looked really freaked out. I just... wanted to make sure nothing had happened to you.”

Aveline smiles and pulls him into a hug. “I’m fine, Desmond. And so is Shay, as far as I know.”

“Good,” Desmond says, holding her tightly. “Take care of yourselves. And, uh... sorry for waking you.”

-

Desmond doesn’t tell anyone about it. Honestly, he’s scared. The visits were the best part of those months in the Animus, even if he didn’t always appreciate them at the time, but... he was _miserable_ back then. He barely knew who he was half the time. And somehow he can’t imagine having the visiting without the misery.

So he just has to pretend nothing’s happening, and... maybe it won’t be.

Maybe it was a one-off. Maybe he won’t have to worry about this happening again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd recommend reading [Visiting Hours 84](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4817489/chapters/13472845) (the Shroud of Eden takes its price) before this.

He was grooming the horses, and all of a sudden he’s found himself inside a carriage. It’s _almost_ a mystery. But more or less the same thing has happened several times before, although not quite so abruptly, and so the solution isn’t hard to find: he must have tired of the work, crawled inside Monsieur de la Serre’s carriage and fallen asleep.

He’s almost satisfied himself with this answer when something occurs to him: this isn’t Monsieur de la Serre’s carriage.

It’s also moving. And the scenery outside the window... doesn’t look remotely like Versailles.

Arno revises his theory. He was grooming the horses, and then he was kidnapped.

It’s tempting to open the door and throw himself straight out onto the street. But he can hear voices from the vicinity of the driver’s seat, and perhaps it would be better to take a moment to listen. Work out who these people are, where he is, whether they’re likely to shoot him if he attempts to escape.

“Jacob...” A woman’s voice.

“Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” a man – presumably Jacob – asks. “You fill your notebook with _Henry Henry Henry_ , and then we meet a Henry? You should write a novel. _Love Before First Sight_. The wealthy ladies of London would love it. We’ll never have to work again.”

“Jacob, I swear, if you say one more word about Mr Green, I shall take the reins and send us both into the Thames.”

“As if you’d do such a thing to this lovely horse,” Jacob says. “Don’t listen to her, horsie.”

For a moment, they trundle on in silence.

“I know what’ll cheer you up,” Jacob says. The carriage slows to a halt outside a bakery. “Our first meal in London. I’ll buy us some things. Be nice to the horse while I’m gone.”

A distinct unease is creeping over Arno, on top of his general unease at this situation. _Our first meal in London._ And the woman mentioned the Thames earlier, and...

Don’t think about that now. It’s impossible, in any case. One of them is leaving, so now is the time to run.

There’s a soft thud as Jacob presumably slips down from the driver’s seat. Arno watches through the window, hoping to make sure his captor is far enough away before he makes his move. ‘Jacob’ appears to be a man of medium height, dressed in a flat cap and a rather shabby overcoat, and...

...he’s just turned around and met Arno’s eyes.

Jacob flashes him a charming smile and a wave, and then walks back to the front of the carriage.

“Evie,” he says, conversationally, “were you aware that there’s a man in our cab?”

There’s an instant thud, and a second later the door is flung open and a woman springs at Arno, pinning him down, and – she’s strapped a damn _knife_ to her wrist and it’s at Arno’s throat, and—

“Who are you?” she demands. “What’s your interest in us? How did you find us?”

“Arno Dorian,” Arno says at once. Perhaps it would be wiser to give a false name, but it’s difficult to think up aliases when someone has a blade-edge to your neck and a knee pressed against the join of your trousers. “I... you weren’t expecting me? You didn’t... kidnap me, then?”

“Evie,” Jacob says, looking on in evident amusement from just outside the open door, “did you check the cab before we set off?”

“Of course I did,” Evie snaps at him. “He must have got in while we were moving.” She brings her attention sharply back to Arno. “Are you a Templar?”

“Am I a what?” The word sounds familiar. Perhaps he’s overheard it a handful of times, in conversations he wasn’t a part of. But it means very little to him.

“Let the poor sod go,” Jacob says. “He probably just wanted a free lift.”

“He could have heard us discussing confidential information, Jacob!”

“What ‘confidential information’ have we been discussing?” Jacob asks. “Only your deep yearning for Greenie, and that’s hardly a secret.”

Evie’s hand has started to shake. It doesn’t seem to bode well for Arno’s neck.

“Er,” Arno says, carefully. “Monsieur Jacob? Would you mind not teasing your friend while she’s trying to kill me?”

“She’s not trying to kill you,” Jacob says. “Believe me, if she was trying to kill you, you’d know about it. Well, no, you wouldn’t, because you’d be dead.”

Right. Arno still isn’t sure how he got himself into this situation, but he knows one thing now: he is definitely at the mercy of a murderer.

“Still, you might have an idea,” Jacob says. “Evie? I’ll stop teasing if you let him go.”

Evie pauses. “He might still be a Templar spy.”

“He might not be,” Jacob says. “And I don’t think the bit about not stabbing innocents means we can knife everyone who _might_ be on the wrong side.”

Evie hesitates a moment longer, then withdraws her blade. “My brother’s still watching you,” she reminds Arno, beginning to pat him down.

“Understood,” Arno says, staying as still as he can.

After an embarrassingly thorough search, Evie sits back on her heels and reports that he’s carrying no weapons.

“And you think the Templars would send an unarmed man after us?” Jacob asks.

“I suppose not,” Evie says. She gives Arno a selfconscious smile. “I’m extremely sorry.”

Arno gives a little _hm_ of acknowledgement. He’s not entirely certain he’s prepared to accept apologies yet.

“So how did you come to be in our carriage?” Jacob asks, crouching outside the door to look in at him.

“I’m not sure,” Arno says. “Er, you were saying... is this really London?”

Evie and Jacob exchange a glance.

“Unless Manchester’s nicked St Paul’s Cathedral,” Jacob says.

“But you’re French.”

Jacob bursts out laughing.

“This _can’t_ be London,” Arno says. “You both speak perfect French. The people passing, they’re speaking French. The signs are all in French. Where are we, really?”

“We’re in London,” Evie says. She’s looking at him strangely. “I barely speak French. _Je... m’appelle Evie Frye_.”

Her introduction... feels different from the rest of her speech, somehow. And suddenly it’s as if a thin curtain has been drawn aside, and Arno can see clearly. The shop signs, the chatter of the passers-by, none of it is in French. And yet somehow he can understand it.

“I can’t be in England,” he says, almost begging. “How will I get back to Versailles?”

“Need to pay your way, do you?” Jacob asks. “Have you ever considered joining a gang?”

Evie rolls her eyes. “ _Jacob_ —”

And an instant later Arno finds himself standing amongst Monsieur de la Serre’s horses, brush in hand.

A dream. A very vivid dream, and one he’s apparently had while standing up. But what other explanation can there be?

He tells Élise about it, and her laughter makes him feel more secure. Of course it can’t have been real.

He thinks he sees her expression darken when he mentions Templar spies, though.


	3. Chapter 3

“Shay?” Desmond asks. “I’m gonna go out for some supplies. You want to help?”

Shay raises a hand in acknowledgement. Haytham and Desmond went on most of the food runs together in their early days in this century, but Desmond’s been bringing Shay increasingly often, and Shay suspects he knows why. Haytham is still extremely dubious about most of the food in this time. Shay’s spent enough time at sea not to complain, so long as it’s plentiful and free of weevils.

So has Edward, of course, and Edward didn’t have Shay’s later life, a few decades on dry land to get used to the luxury of having fresh food about. But Edward’s been banned from two supermarkets already.

Shay’s lacing his boots when he finds himself in the wrong place. He goes still. A visit? He hasn’t visited since he... well, since he died.

Stay calm. Assess the situation. If it _is_ a visit, he’s the one visiting, so he shouldn’t be in any physical danger.

Which is just as well, because it looks like he’s in some sort of den full of Assassins. He looks around, but nobody’s familiar to him. And nobody so much as glances his way, although he’s not sure whether that’s because they can’t see him or because they’re in the middle of a blazing row.

One person here isn’t in Assassin dress, he notices: a young woman with vibrantly red hair. She raises her voice above the others.

“My name is Élise de la Serre. My father was François de la Serre, Grand Master of the Templar Order. I've come to ask for your help.”

Well. _That’s_ interesting.

The argument only escalates from there; Shay is unsurprised to note that most of this Assassin council, or whatever it is, isn’t prepared to hear a Templar’s plea. It’ll be uncomfortable if he turns out to be visiting one of them.

He’s hoping to be visiting this Élise; a lot of the important people in his life are Assassins, of course, but it’d be nice to have someone else on his side of the fight, if they’re going to be visiting again. And, well... he looks at this proud, fiery young Templar woman and some part of him sees Jeanne.

He tries to catch her eye when she turns to leave, but she looks straight through him.

Her companion pauses, though. Gives Shay a smile, although he’s evidently still frustrated with how that discussion went.

So Shay’s visiting this young man? Could be worse. He’s an Assassin, going by his clothes, but he was obviously arguing on behalf of the Templar. With any luck, Shay’s affiliations shouldn’t make things too awkward.

The man gestures subtly to Shay to follow them. Shay lingers just long enough to feel the pull of falling out of range, to be sure this is really a visit, and then he walks after Élise and her friend.

“Shay’s joined us,” the man says quietly to Élise, as they make their way down a corridor.

“Ah, yes,” Élise says. “One of your invisible friends.”

“The Templar,” the man says. “The one with the Assassin wife. I promise you, the two sides can work with each other. They’re together. They’re happy.”

“They aren’t us, Arno,” Élise says. “It was a mistake to come here.”

“Think you have me at a disadvantage,” Shay says. It’s a little disconcerting, meeting someone who already knows about Aveline, but Arno doesn’t seem like a foe. “I haven’t met you before. But I’m not here to get in the way, if you’re having a private conversation.”

Arno laughs. “It’s our first meeting, Élise!”

Élise pauses in her stride and gives him a strange look.

“You remember the visits can happen out of order?” Arno asks. “This is Shay’s first visit to me. He doesn’t know me yet.”

“Well,” Élise says, “that sounds horrendously confusing.”

“It is,” Arno says, with a grin. He holds out a hand to Shay. “Arno Dorian.”

“Shay Cormac,” Shay says, shaking it. “Suspect you knew that already.”

“You’ve always given me a great deal of reassurance,” Arno says. “About the possibility of peace between Assassins and Templars. I suppose now’s a good time to tell you I appreciate all you’ve done for me. Or... all you’ll do for me.”

Shay laughs, slightly embarrassed. “Feels strange to take your thanks when I haven’t done a thing.”

Arno grins and pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll earn it.”

_“Shay?”_

Shay blinks, and an instant later he’s back in the safe house, staring at the bootlaces in his hand.

“Shay?”

Shay looks up at Desmond. “I think I might’ve just visited.”

Desmond winces. “I guess this is really happening, huh?” he asks, after a moment.

He doesn’t seem surprised.

“Seems like it,” Shay says. “You’ve been visiting?”

“Just once,” Desmond says. “I thought maybe...” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll call the others together.”

-

Desmond gives them all a very brief account of his visit; apparently he found himself in some sort of ‘fancy house’, but the visit ended before he could figure out who he was actually visiting.

“And nothing happened?” Aveline asks, frowning slightly.

Desmond shakes his head. “It was a pretty boring visit,” he says. He’s not meeting her eyes, but, to be fair, Edward’s just shown up late to the gathering and flopped down on one of the sofas with his head in Shaun’s lap. Shaun’s indignant noises are slightly distracting.

Shay can give them a slightly more detailed idea of their new visitor, if they were both visiting the same person: Arno Dorian, an Assassin, one who was prepared to argue on behalf of a Templar in front of some sort of Assassin council.

“Well,” Haytham says, “I suppose that’s promising.”

“Where was he?” Ezio asks. “When?”

“Don’t know the year,” Shay says. “But France or a French colony, I’d say. French names, at any rate. And they were speaking French.” It’s not always easy to tell what language is being spoken on a visit – anything they don’t understand is filtered through the consciousness of the person they’re visiting, as far as he can tell – but French is a special case for him. He’s got a reasonable understanding of the language; he’s tried to learn it as well as he can, for obvious reasons. It created a strange effect during the visit, his own mostly-comprehension layered under Arno’s fluency.

“He’s _French_?” Shaun demands. “Desmond, you’re definitely not allowed to bring this one home with you.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t _bring them home with me_ ,” Desmond protests. “They just showed up.”

Watching them argue, Shay finds himself smiling. _Arno Dorian_.

An Assassin, yes. But one who’s obviously prepared to bridge the gap with the Templar order. One who associates closely with that young Templar lady, who’s told her about visitors, who might perhaps let Shay speak to her. He knows she’s not his daughter, of course, but...

Well. If he’s going to be visiting again, it’s not a bad start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's awkward misunderstandings time! Sorry, Desmond. You'd gone slightly too long without being tormented.

It can be hard to follow someone’s life when you see it in brief, out-of-order glimpses. Desmond actually misses the Animus sometimes; at least it gave him a good understanding of some of his visitors. But he’s starting to get to know Arno, he thinks, from their handful of encounters so far.

Arno spent his teenage years growing up in Versailles, with his dad and his sister Élise; Desmond hasn’t seen anyone who could be his mom around the place, but he hasn’t actually talked to Arno about his family, so it’s possible that she’s just reclusive. At some point Arno ended up in prison for a while (he didn’t seem ready to talk about why, when Desmond visited him in his cell; Desmond still really wants to know about that), and at some point after _that_ he joined the Brotherhood in Paris. It’s pretty vague, as outlines go, but it’s something Desmond can use as an anchor. These are the things he knows about Arno, and anything else can build out from that.

In a weird way, Desmond’s almost glad for an instant when he drops in on Arno naked, thrusting and panting and moaning; it feels like now he can be sure he’s visiting instead of losing his mind, like it wasn’t _real_ until the visits somehow found a way to mortify him. And then the actual mortification kicks in, and he turns away with a squeak, covering his eyes.

And _then_ he finds himself torn between needing to peek and really, really needing to not do that, because...

Well, he didn’t really get a good look at the (very vocal) woman Arno’s with, but he did get an impression of a lot of blazing red hair.

There’s one woman who spends a lot of time around Arno, and who has hair in that exact striking shade.

It can’t be. It _can’t_ be, can it?

Desmond looks back, as subtly as he can. He’s hoping that Arno won’t have noticed his appearance, but – Arno’s looking right at him, and there’s that strange, shivery instant of intimacy when you catch the eye of a person who’s having sex with someone else. There was a time when Desmond wouldn’t have known what that felt like. It’s never going to stop being weird.

Arno raises his eyebrows, his mouth twitching up into a smirk, and then he drops his attention back to Élise, who’s clearly the most interesting thing to him in this situation.

She’s definitely Élise.

Jesus Christ. What is Desmond meant to do here?

Okay, well, he knows what the first thing to do is: crouch in the corner, facing the wall, with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears. (Well, his one hand over one of his ears. He misses having two arms. And there’s no way he can block out the rhythmic vibration through the floor, unfortunately.) If he’s lucky, maybe the visit will end before he has to figure out how to react to this.

But the universe still hates Desmond, so he stays there and stays there and stays there, and eventually there’s a tap on his shoulder. Arno, thankfully clothed, is there when he looks around. Élise is nowhere to be seen.

“Well, I appreciate the courtesy,” Arno says. “ _Certain_ visitors just stand there and watch. It’s unsettling, frankly.”

Other people have seen this? But... they might have been travelling back from further in the future. Desmond can’t be sure that anyone in his time will be able to commiserate with him.

How to approach this?

“You know,” Desmond says, “don’t take this the wrong way, but... she looked a lot like Élise.”

“You don’t say?” Arno asks. “I suppose the fact she was Élise might have had something to do with it.”

Right. Wow. Yeah, ‘everything is permitted’, but he didn’t think...

Maybe it’s... different in France? Cousins are legal in England, right? And Arno doesn’t look like he thinks he’s been caught doing something _wrong_ ; he actually kind of looks proud of himself, if a little sheepish. Probably no more sheepish than normal if a guy appears out of nowhere when you’re having sex with your girlfriend.

Your... girlfriend-slash-sister.

This can’t be right.

And then the light changes sharply, and Desmond blinks, his eyes adjusting. He’s back in the safehouse, and Shaun is waving a hand in front of his face.

“Desmond? Back with us?”

“I think I just saw Arno sleeping with his sister,” Desmond says, before he can stop himself.

Shaun looks mildly interested. “Arno’s the French one? When was this?”

Not exactly the reaction Desmond was expecting. “Er, late eighteenth century?”

“Good news for them, then,” Shaun says. “Napoleon’s going to abolish incest law in 1810. You can tell him that next time you visit.”

He vanishes into the room where they keep the historical resources.

Desmond stares at the door for a moment.

“Why do you know that off the top of your head?” he calls.

-

It’s all he can think about when he next sees Arno. _Hey, incest laws are going to be abolished in a couple of decades, so you’ll be able to bang your sister as much as you want._

He can’t say that, can he? Well, he _definitely_ can’t say it right now; Arno’s in the middle of a conversation with some guy in a military jacket, who’s probably going to be a little weirded out if Arno starts talking to nobody about incest.

Desmond wishes he’d never dropped in on him and Élise. There are a lot of scenes he wishes he’d never dropped in on, but he _particularly_ wishes he’d never dropped in on this one, because now he’s carrying a secret he doesn’t know what to do with.

Is it... okay? Maybe? If they’re both into it? They both definitely _seemed_ into it. Should he try to stop it? Should he give them advice on birth control? What?

It was easy to judge the Borgia, but Arno is someone he actually _likes_. And he’s likely to keep showing up in Desmond’s life for the foreseeable future, so there’s some risk tied up in pissing him off.

Desmond is still friends with Edward, and Edward used to slaughter a load of guys whenever he got bored of the decoration on his ship. He’s not sure this is actually worse than that.

But it’s still... it’s weird.

Right. Focus. Arno’s companion has just left, so there’s probably about to be a conversation, and Desmond... Desmond needs to distract himself.

“Who were you talking to just now?” Desmond asks.

“An artillery officer,” Arno says. “Interesting man. Slightly pretentious. Bonaparte, I think.”

So much for distraction. “ _Napoleon_ Bonaparte? You know Napoleon?”

“We’ve only just met,” Arno says. “Why? Is he someone notable?”

“I think one or two people have heard of him, yeah,” Desmond says. He’s going to say it. God, he’s going to say it, isn’t he? “He’s... you know, he’s going to abolish all the incest laws around 1810.”

Arno frowns. “He’s going to what?”

“So... so, uh...”

Arno stares blankly at him.

“Anyway,” Desmond says. “I thought you might like to know.”

Arno stares for a moment longer.

“Well, thank you,” he says at last, uncertainly.

-

“Desmond? Is something troubling you?”

Desmond looks up. Ezio.

“I don’t know,” Desmond says. “I just... things are really awkward between me and Arno. I don’t know how to stop thinking about it every time I see him.”

Ezio nods sympathetically. “Did you sleep together?”

Desmond feels himself flush. “Ezio...”

“Do you _wish_ to sleep together?”

“Ezio, _no_.”

Maybe Ezio really is the right person to talk to about this, though. He’s seen some pretty weird sibling relationships himself.

“It’s him and his sister,” Desmond says. “I think they’re really... close. Like, Borgia close.”

“Ah,” Ezio says. “I can see why that would trouble you. But did Arno have a sister?”

“You must’ve seen her,” Desmond says. “Or you will, anyway. Arno was complaining that you wouldn’t stop flirting. I thought he was just being protective.” He pauses. “Or that you were making things weird, using his body for it. I guess making things weird wasn’t really something he was worried about.”

“Are you speaking of Élise?” Ezio asks, frowning. “Élise de la Serre?”

“Yeah, Él— wait, is that her married name?”

Ezio looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.

“She calls Arno’s dad ‘father’!” Desmond protests.

“She calls her father ‘father’,” Ezio says. “Monsieur de la Serre. The man who kindly took Arno in after Arno’s father was killed.”

“Holy shit,” Desmond says. “Wait, so she’s his _adoptive_ sister?”

“Essentially,” Ezio says. “I do not think it was enshrined in law, but they were certainly raised together.”

Desmond pauses. That’s... still kind of weird, but he’s pretty sure it’d have been normal at the time, so it’s probably not his place to say anything.

Although the other thing would’ve been normal too in a couple of decades, apparently. He really didn’t need to know this much about incest law in France.

“I told Arno the incest laws were going to be abolished,” he says, with a vague, distant sense of horror.

Ezio doubles over laughing.

“You should have been visitor to Cesare and Lucrezia,” he says, once he’s caught his breath. “They would have appreciated such a supportive friend.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” Desmond snaps. “My friends all murder people _all the time_ ; it seemed weird to draw the line at... at...” He flaps his hand, helplessly. “That!”

Ezio starts to laugh again. Desmond _hates_ visiting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd recommend reading [Visitorial 16](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5889880/chapters/13613074) (Edward tries to explain things to the Frye twins) before this. Partly because it might make things clearer. Mostly because it's hilarious.

Shay will never tire of Aveline kissing him awake. They spent too long apart, in their first lives. They were never _completely_ apart, of course, but there was too long when they could only visit. He cursed it every day towards the end, the fact that he didn’t seek her out sooner. Now they’ve been given a second life together, a second chance.

Hard to believe he deserves it, after all that he’s done. But... well, if a woman like her can love him, there must be something there worth saving.

He strokes her hair, and she presses closer, curling her leg over his, running a hand over his chest...

“The others’ll still be sleeping,” Shay murmurs, barely drawing back.

Aveline smiles. “We can be quiet.”

“Can we?” Shay asks. “You should tell Desmond; he’ll be thrilled.”

“I don’t imagine he’d be alone,” Aveline says. “Do you wonder what Haytham thinks of when he overhears us?”

Shay lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Stares up at the darkened ceiling. “We’re going to talk about this?”

“I think we should,” Aveline says. “He won’t have forgotten that night. It’s only been months for him.”

“I know,” Shay says. _He_ hasn’t forgotten, and it’s been decades. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. “But what are we supposed to do about it? He won’t want to talk.”

“Perhaps words aren’t the best way to communicate.”

“Aveline, he’ll run. It’d kill Desmond.”

Aveline sighs. “I know,” she says. “But I think I needed to say it.”

He pulls her to him and kisses her again. She _hmm_ s and nuzzles his neck, and he drifts his hand down her back, and they’ve just cast the bedclothes aside when suddenly there’s a third person on top of them.

This has happened a number of times before, with varying results depending on the visitor. Connor and Desmond were extremely unhappy; Ezio was amused and delighted, and, frankly, seemed in no great hurry to vacate the bed. On one exceptionally painful occasion, it was Haytham, years after their night together.

But Shay’s fairly certain this is the first time they’ve suddenly been joined by a stranger.

“Ow! What – where—?”

Aveline rolls off the bed at once, grabs a blanket and wraps it around herself, then switches on the bedside light.

“Oh, and you leave me exposed?” Shay asks, trying to cover himself with his hands.

Aveline laughs and throws him another blanket. “Sorry. I suppose I thought it cruel to deprive our guest of such a fine sight.” She turns to the man who’s joined them. “Are you Arno?”

“If that’s some sort of slang for ‘confused’, yes,” the man says. “Have I been kidnapped by nude Templars?”

Aveline looks at Shay. She’s dying to tell their mystery visitor that he’s surprisingly close; Shay can tell. But this man is probably an Assassin, if his first thought is that Templars have taken him, and it’s probably best not to spring Shay’s identity on him while they’re unarmed and unclothed.

“Actually,” the man says, apparently to himself, “was Arno the name of that disappearing Frenchman?”

“You’re on a visit,” Shay says. Now that he’s really looking at the new arrival, there’s something vaguely familiar about him. As if Shay might perhaps have seen him once, a long time ago. “Do you know about visiting?”

The man bursts out laughing. “It’s _real_? So that Edward wasn’t just mad?”

“Edward is absolutely mad,” Aveline assures him, “but visiting is real. You’ve met Edward?”

“He explained things to me and my sister,” the man says. “Well, I say ‘explained’.”

“Your sister could see him?” Shay asks, frowning.

Aveline presses a hand to her mouth. “You’re Jacob Frye.”

Shay stares at her, and then at the newcomer. Yes. He _has_ seen him before.

“I know,” Jacob says, frowning at Aveline. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve actually known for a while.” He pauses, looking at the clock by the bed, with its lit-up numbers. “Actually, I think Edward said you were all in the future, didn’t he?” He grins. “Do I end up famous? Is that why it’s such a shock?”

Aveline turns and strides straight out of the room. Shay, after a moment’s confusion, leaps out of the bed and pulls the blanket more securely around himself.

“You’d better come with us,” he says to Jacob.

“Lead the way,” Jacob says cheerfully. “I’ve no idea what’s going on, but it doesn’t seem dull, at least.”

-

“Edward!” Aveline snaps, flinging his door open. Shay follows, keeping an eye on Jacob, who looks like he wants to run off and poke around the safehouse at the first opportunity. Haytham seems to have woken early and left the room he and Edward share already, which is probably for the best; Shay would feel very, very selfconscious about striding into his bedroom without proper clothes on.

Edward pats the space on the bed next to him, not opening his eyes.

“You know you told us you went to Evie’s time and explained things?” Aveline asks.

“I used the cards,” Edward mumbles. “It was fine.”

“Was her brother there?”

Shay can’t make out what Edward says to that – it sounds like ‘comfortable bed’ – but he’s nodding as he says it, and that’s understandable, at least.

“Could he see you?”

There’s a pause.

Edward opens his eyes. “I think Jacob’s a visitor.”

“I think he might be,” Jacob agrees.

“There you are!” Edward says, breaking into a smile. “I was wondering when one of the new ones would come to visit us. How’s your sister?”

“Still seems unhappy with the entire affair,” Jacob says, with a shrug. “I think it seems like fun. But she _has_ always hated fun.”

“Edward,” Aveline says, “did it not occur to you that we might want to know Jacob was a visitor as well?”

“It’s not strange, people actually being able to see you,” Edward protests. “Or it doesn’t _feel_ strange. It didn’t occur to me that there was anything odd about _not_ being invisible. I hadn’t visited in months.”

All right, maybe it’s excusable. Shay can’t be certain he wouldn’t have made the same oversight himself, although Aveline still looks sceptical.

“Anyway.” Edward’s gaze travels slowly over Aveline and Shay. Shay is suddenly very aware that the two of them are still only wearing blankets. “It looks like you’re off to a friendly start.”

Shay feels himself flush. He tries not to look at Jacob. “We didn’t... I’m not sure what you’re implying, but whatever it is, we didn’t do it.”

“Think he’s talking about when I joined you in the bed,” Jacob says, helpfully. Shay looks sharply at him, and Jacob flashes a grin that makes it clear he knows _exactly_ what a shit he’s being.

And then he disappears.

“You’ve started inviting other people in, then?” Edward asks, smirking. “Ezio’ll be heartbroken you didn’t ask him first.”

Shay catches Aveline’s eye, and then he has to turn away so Edward won’t see his expression. Maybe Haytham was right to resist for all those years. One night of closeness, and now it’ll haunt them forever. But he can’t imagine ever talking to Haytham about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Evie looks up from her work and sighs. She’s a little impressed despite herself that Jacob has somehow managed to sneak into her cabin without her noticing, but...

“I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“I can’t exactly help it,” Jacob says. “I’m visiting.”

“But you’re not,” Evie points out. “You’re here.”

“I’m visiting you.”

Surely not. She _can_ feel something like the usual tingle in the back of her head when she has a visitor, but... no. The visitors are people from other times. She and Jacob can’t visit _each other_.

“Very amusing,” she says, turning back to her research on the potential Piece of Eden. “Aren’t you supposed to be off investigating the ironworks for Clara?”

Jacob starts to laugh. “Oh, is _that_ when this is?”

He wants her to ask what’s so funny, Evie knows. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

Suddenly there’s a clatter of boots on the roof, and she looks up sharply. She’d normally think nothing of it, she’d assume it was just Jacob making one of his typically noisy returns, but Jacob is here with her. An enemy?

She grips her cane. Looks over at Jacob, who appears entirely unconcerned.

And then another Jacob swings himself through the door.

“Another load of kids rescued from the horrors of labour,” he says, cheerfully. “I’m a saint. How’s your – am I interrupting – hold on, who’s that handsome devil?”

Evie looks between the new Jacob (puzzled but smiling) and the Jacob by her side (evidently delighting in every second of this).

“You’re visiting,” she says.

“You see?” visiting Jacob asks. “When have I ever lied to you?”

That’s a question it’s best not to go into.

“You can visit me,” she says, with a dawning sense of horror. “I’ll never be able to get away from you again.”

“The inseparable Frye twins,” visiting Jacob says, grinning. “You’re going to have to get used to it. I’ve had some awkward visits from you myself, so I can assure you you’re not the only one who’ll suffer.”

“Awkward visits, you say?” the other Jacob – _her_ Jacob – asks. “Any chance you could let me know what I’m getting into in advance?”

Visiting Jacob shrugs innocently. “Sorry. I’ve already had to live through them; it wouldn’t be fair if I helped you get away scot-free. But I can promise we’ll start off by making things uncomfortable for our dear sister over there.”

“Splendid,” her Jacob says, rubbing his hands together. “And how’s that?”

Visiting Jacob saunters towards him, and...

Evie stares.

Her Jacob makes a startled _mmph_ noise against visiting Jacob’s mouth, against _his own future self’s mouth_ , and pushes him firmly away. “Er, I thought we were making _her_ uncomfortable.”

“We are,” visiting Jacob says. “Evie? How do you feel about this?”

Evie tries to process her reaction. It takes a moment; every time she asks herself ‘how do I feel about my brother kissing a duplicate of himself?’, the answer comes back as ‘are you absolutely sure that’s what you’re seeing?’

“Perplexed and troubled, I’d say,” she eventually concludes.

“See?” visiting Jacob asks, turning back to her Jacob.

Her Jacob eyes him warily. “I’m... not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be seeing. There’s a lot I’d do for the sake of troubling Evie, but I do have to draw the line _somewhere_.” He shifts on his feet, evidently ill at ease. “I’m going to... I’m going through to my carriage.”

And he strides away, leaving Evie with only one Jacob, which is still, frankly, one too many.

“Well,” Evie says at last, “I’m glad we’re not _identical_ twins.”

Visiting Jacob makes a face. “Don’t make this odd.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; heaven forfend I make things strange. Are you planning to make an honest man out of yourself? I don’t know if he’d take you.”

“There’s a lot he has to live through,” visiting Jacob says, with a shrug.

“Before he realises that his true love was himself all along?” Evie asks. “I’ve known it for years.”

“Evie,” Jacob says, and she’s startled to realise that he looks serious. “We’re... both going to go through a lot, trying to free London, you and me. And I know you’re going to suffer when it’s over.”

“I’m going to suffer?” Evie asks.

“And I wish I could’ve been a better support,” Jacob says. “I tried. But I couldn’t always... I had things going on in my head as well.” He gestures the way her Jacob went. “He – I had a solid idea of myself, here, the time you’re in. But maybe I was wrong about some things. Or maybe I wasn’t... as flexible as I should have been, when I thought about who I was.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to ask you to tell me to ignore that letter. It’d make everything a lot easier, if I never...” He shakes his head. “But I know you will anyway, and of course I won’t listen.”

“Jacob,” Evie says, frowning at him in some alarm, “are you genuinely in love with yourself?”

He breaks into a smile at that. “No. The kiss? No. I was just trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“Well, you succeeded,” Evie informs him. “You’re a terrible brother.”

He laughs and drapes an arm across her shoulders. “And yet I’m still the best one you have.”


	7. Chapter 7

“All these lanterns,” Jacob says, leaning against a support pillar and looking down at the stores of weapons. “All this gunpowder. It’s almost as if they’re asking for trouble.”

Arno laughs. Hefts a lantern in his hand. “It would certainly strike a blow to Lafrenière.”

“Catch the straw just there,” Jacob says, pointing, “and you might be able to take out the guards as well.”

Arno throws the lantern with perfect aim, and for a moment it looks as if everything is going to go to plan. And then the powder stores blow, and... well, everything is _technically_ still going to plan. It’s just that Jacob has only just realised that that plan entails ‘turning the floor below them into a sea of flames’.

“On further thought,” Arno says, frowning slightly, “perhaps it would have been wiser to escape the building _before_ setting it alight.”

Jacob makes a dismissive noise, because Arno’s worried, and that means it’s his job not to be. “You’ll be fine. You’re an Assassin, aren’t you?”

“Are Assassins supposed to be impervious to flame?” Arno asks. “I think Bellec may have neglected that aspect of my training.”

“We can climb,” Jacob says. “There’s a hole in the roof.”

“Ah,” Arno says. “A lovely, convenient hole in the roof through which I could quite safely have dropped a lantern.”

There’s a loud cracking noise, a creaking of wood. Jacob glances at the flames that are already licking through the floorboards, and something like unease catches in his chest. “The building’s not going to become _less on fire_ if we stand here and talk about it.”

Arno takes off running, and Jacob follows.

-

The heat is incredible. Jacob feels that you could carve him and serve him as a Sunday roast. It’s amazing the fire is still going, really, all the sweat he’s pouring onto it.

Arno’s ahead. Jacob isn’t exactly going to push past him in a desperate rush for safety; Arno’s the one who’s actually _here_ , so he’s the one whose safety actually means something. If Jacob falls into the flames, he knows he’ll just find himself back in his own time; wouldn’t be the first time he’s almost got himself killed on a visit. If Arno falls...

Well. It’s best if Jacob lets Arno stay in front, doesn’t get in the way. Obviously he doesn’t _want_ to end up in the fire – it’ll end his visit early, and he doesn’t really fancy being left to wonder whether Arno made it out of his excellent plan alive – but if one of them has to, it’s not exactly a difficult—

He misjudges a jump.

Of course he bloody misjudges a jump, he’s not watching his feet, he’s watching Arno. He barely manages to grab the edge of the platform he was going for, but his grip is too tenuous, his hands are slick with sweat, he knows he won’t be able to pull himself up on his own. He can feel his heartbeat through his entire body. He’s going to fall, he’s going to spend the rest of his life wondering – or, well, at least until he meets an Arno who’s past this point. And what if he doesn’t? He could spend decades hoping to meet an older Arno, slowly realising it’s never going to happen.

No. It’ll be fine. Arno’s almost at the hole in the roof. Jacob just has to hold on, watch until Arno’s out safely, and then he can let go.

Arno looks back. “Jacob? _Shit_.”

Jacob tries to gesture him onwards using only his eyebrows; his hands are rather occupied.

And evidently his eyebrows have failed him, because Arno _turns back_.

“No,” Jacob says, horrified. “No, carry on! I’m visiting! It’s your own neck you need to worry about!”

“Well, perhaps,” Arno says. He half-kneels at the edge of Jacob’s platform, grips Jacob by the arms. “I _could_ just stand here and watch you disappear into that inferno. But I’m not sure I’m prepared for the nightmares.”

“I’m going to visit your grave just to tell you how stupid you are,” Jacob informs him.

Actually, he’ll probably technically be able to visit Arno’s grave regardless of whether Arno dies here or not. There’s a cheery thought.

Arno hauls him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

Jacob is tempted to shove him back on course; the idiot has to _get moving_. But it seems unwise to go shoving friends around when there’s not so much as a safety rail between them and a sea of burning gunpowder.

-

Jacob’s legs won’t stop trembling, and Arno has to half-drag him to safety, despite Jacob’s efforts to force him on alone. The noble thing would be for Jacob to shrug off Arno’s arms and throw himself into the flames, back to London. Somehow he can’t make himself do the noble thing, even if he can’t stop thinking that he’s killed Arno twice, once by suggesting this plan in the first place, once by being bloody useless. If Arno actually _dies_ , if Jacob has to live knowing that he caused it twice over...

But they get out. They get out.

They look at each other, and they look back at the burning building, and suddenly they both dissolve into laughter.

“We’re alive,” Jacob manages to say between giggles, clutching Arno’s shoulder to keep himself upright. “We’re alive. We’re still alive. We’re _idiots_.”

“ _I’m_ still alive,” Arno points out. “That’s the notable thing here. I don’t think _your_ survival was ever in question. You could have popped in on a visit, murdered me with your ‘advice’ and gone back to London, safe and sound.”

“Fine.” Jacob pulls the ribbon out of Arno’s hair, to teach him a lesson for being a smartarse. “And who’s the prat who came back to rescue me? _You’re_ still alive. Be proud of yourself.”

“I listened to you,” Arno mutters. “You said ‘let’s set fire to the gunpowder-filled building we’re inside’, and I _listened_. I’ll never be proud of myself again.”

Jacob grins at him, wrapping the hair ribbon around his fingers. His heart’s still racing; he doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop. This is what it’s all about, being in the moment, feeling _alive_. All his fear while they were trapped in there feels like nothing now. “Any other buildings you might need to burn down, by any chance?”

Arno laughs. “Oh, no. No, no. Next time, _you’re_ going to be the one in danger.”


	8. Chapter 8

As visitors go, Arno is one of the ones Evie prefers; he isn’t a Templar, he isn’t _Jacob_ and he’s never tried to tell her that she’s living her life incorrectly, which makes him better than half the others already. He can be a little tense if she visits early in his timeline – she did threaten him with a blade on their first meeting, admittedly – but the Arno who’s just shown up on the train is evidently one who’s known her for a while and is comfortable with her. Some relaxed conversation will be a pleasant change, after a few high-pressure days of working against the Blighters.

And then Jacob barges into her carriage, of course.

“Fight club,” he says. “Arno!”

“Have you ever considered communicating in full sentences?” Evie asks. “It makes everything rather easier.”

“We’re passing a fight club,” Jacob says. “I’m going to go and fight in the fight club. Hello, Arno, you’re here!”

“I am,” Arno agrees.

“You didn’t tell me he was visiting,” Jacob says to Evie, his tone slightly accusatory.

“Was I supposed to?” Evie asks. “I can write you a list of everyone I ever interact with, if you like. Goodness knows I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Well, you’re busy now,” Jacob says. “You’re coming to the fight club with me.”

Evie raises her eyebrows. “Oh, am I? And why would I do that, exactly?”

“Because I’ve just decided you’re going to. It’ll be fun.”

“And if someone ambushes our base, and we’ve both worn ourselves out with pointless brawling?”

“We’ve got the Rooks,” Jacob says, with a shrug. “And you don’t actually have to _fight_. You can cheer me on. Give me a bit of encouragement.”

“When have you ever needed my _encouragement_ to put your fist in someone’s face?”

“You have to support me,” Jacob says. “It’s what siblings do, isn’t it? It’s the law.”

“Is that so?” Evie asks. “I think Sergeant Abberline may want a word with you, in that case.”

Jacob groans. “Come on, Arno, you have to convince her!”

“Not really my thing, sweaty men wrestling each other,” Arno says.

“You only think that because you haven’t seen me in the ring,” Jacob says. “It’ll change your life. Evie, _please_.”

Evie sighs.

-

“Isn’t he being a bit... violent?” Arno asks, uneasily. “I mean, these men aren’t actually your enemies, are they?”

“Jacob Frye, not knowing when to hold back?” Evie asks. “Surely not.”

In the ring, Jacob takes two men down with sharp kicks to the head and turns to bow in Evie and Arno’s direction.

“Look bored,” Evie whispers to Arno. “He doesn’t need any encouragement. I’m the one who has to put up with his showing off when you’re not here.”

“Well, you could have told me that earlier,” Arno says. “I’ve been looking impressed for four rounds.”

Evie shakes her head. “That’s all I need.”

“He keeps looking at me. I assumed soothing his pride was the polite thing to do. I hadn’t realised it would have dire consequences.” He pauses. “And he _is_ quite an impressive fighter.”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that where he can hear you.”

“Will anyone else take on our champion?” Robert Topping calls. Evie still doesn’t understand how this man somehow seems to preside over every fighting match in the city; how does he have the time? Then again, Jacob seems equally determined to _participate_ in every match, and she knows for a fact he has other things to do.

There seems to be a general reluctance to take on the champion. Jacob’s so far beyond the general standard of fighter here that he should probably be barred from the club, frankly. At least Topping seems happy to have him around.

“Nobody?” Topping asks. “Surely somebody must be tempted. Take him down, become a legend!”

“Oh, dear, Jacob,” Evie says, leaning against the ropes. “It looks like you’re in serious danger of having to get back to work.”

“Are you joking?” Jacob asks. He’s bobbing on his feet, panting a little. “I’ve barely got started.”

“You’re planning to carry on fighting without an opponent? I suppose I’m interested to see how you manage it.”

“Arno!” Jacob calls. “Fight me!”

“Absolutely not,” Arno says. “How will that look, anyway, if people can’t see me? They’re already wondering who you’re talking to.”

“Fight me in private, then.”

“Why do you want me to fight you?”

“To find out who’s stronger,” Jacob says. “ _Obviously_.”

“I can tell you the outcome already,” Arno says. “I’m trained in the sword, not the fist.”

Jacob shrugs. “You should try it anyway. You might surprise yourself.”

“You’re just saying that because you know you’ll win!”

“All right,” Evie interrupts. If Jacob wants a fight, she’ll give him a fight. She strips down to her undershirt and turns to Topping. “Sign me up.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on identifying Jacobs, as there are two significant Jacobs in this universe! I’m very bad at writing OCs and consequently tend not to write B-team scenes; if I mention a Jacob, it’s almost certainly Jacob Frye (glorious prat, twin brother to Evie Frye, visitor to Desmond and company). salanaland, meanwhile, doesn’t have a PS4, so if they mention a Jacob it’s probably Jacob Kidd (crossdressing sailor, daughter of Edward Kenway and James Kidd, visitor to Elena and company). VampireBadger is the only one of us who writes significant amounts about both, so in her stories you might have to cunningly deduce Jacob’s identity via pronouns and the other characters present.

Jacob barges into Evie’s carriage and throws himself moodily down onto her bed. “Have you met this Élise?”

“Mr Dorian’s friend?” Evie asks.

Jacob winces. “Don’t call him that. It’s weird. He’s Arno.”

“And what has Mr Dorian’s friend done to offend you?”

“I mean, what do you do when you’re talking to Edward and Haystack?” Jacob asks. “Are they Mr Kenway and Mr Kenway? What do you do with _Connor_?”

“I try not to speak to the Grand Master at all,” Evie says. “Connor is Connor, because that’s the name he gave me. Edward is Edward, because that’s the name he insists on. I’m not _opposed_ to using Christian names, but it’s polite to wait until invited.”

“Well, I’m inviting you to call him Arno.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait until Mr Dorian offers the invitation himself. What were you saying about Miss de la Serre?”

“Arno’s _infatuated_ with her,” Jacob grumbles. “It’s sickening. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“You had to spend five minutes not being the centre of everyone’s attention?” Evie asks, neatening a small stack of factory plans. “How did you survive?”

“And she’s a _Templar_. He can’t think she really cares about him.”

Evie looks sharply up at him. “She’s a Templar? Does Arno know?”

“Oh, what’s that?” Jacob asks, cupping his hand behind his ear. “‘Arno’? I _knew_ you were just calling him Mr Dorian to annoy me.”

“That’s beside the point,” Evie says. “Élise de la Serre is a Templar? How can you be sure?”

“She was wearing a cross necklace,” Jacob says. “And I asked Arno if she was particularly close to God.” He makes a face at Evie. “Because I _can_ be discreet.”

Evie gives him half a second of applause.

“And – well, first of all, he _hesitated_ ,” Jacob says. “As if he doesn’t trust me not to kill the people he likes. Even if they’re Templars who probably deserve it.”

“So he knows,” Evie says.

Jacob nods. “He definitely knows. And he still brings her along on Assassin business. I tried to tell him she’s going to get him killed. He won’t listen.”

Evie leans against the edge of her desk, frowning. She’s seen Arno with Élise before; he certainly seemed devoted to her. And their visitors in the future seem to live together more or less comfortably, even though two of them are Templars. One of their Assassin visitors is _married_ to a Templar, for goodness’ sake. And Altaïr has told her that his wife was a Templar as well, which Evie was shocked to hear; _that_ certainly wasn’t mentioned in her education.

“Do you think I need to reconsider my attitude to our Templar visitors?” she asks.

“What, actually talk to them?” Jacob asks. “I’ve been telling you to, haven’t I? Shay’s not bad company. And Haystack’s always fun to annoy, at least.”

Desmond seems to adore Haytham. She probably _should_ devote some effort to trying to understand why.

“Hold on,” Jacob says, frowning. “Are you saying I need to give Élise a chance?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Evie says. “She’s a Templar, which certainly means she isn’t to be trusted. But, well, we do seem to know a lot of Assassins who hold individual Templars in high esteem. It’s hard to dismiss that.”

“Arno’s _esteem_ definitely gets higher whenever he looks at her,” Jacob mutters.

Evie gives him an exasperated look. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Look,” Evie says. “I’ll... try talking to our Templar visitors, all right? And you can see if Arno will let you speak to Élise. Maybe we’ll find out what our visitors see in these people.”

“I think you and Haystack will get on like a house on fire,” Jacob says. “You’re both so fond of _being sensible_.”

“Certainly a quality I start to crave after a moment’s conversation with you,” Evie says. “You’ll form the perfect bridge between our two orders.”

She really must remember not to call him Haystack to his face. She’s heard it so much more than his actual name, working with Jacob. It seems unlikely to get things off on the right foot, if she and Haytham are to make a tentative effort to work towards peace.

“ _Being sensible_ ,” Jacob says again, in a tone of disgust.


	10. Chapter 10

He can still feel the heat of the burning theatre at his back, and all he can think about is the gunpowder storehouse he and Arno had narrowly escaped. They’d looked back at it afterwards, at the smoke and the flames and the carnage, and they’d laughed until they were breathless.

Jacob doesn’t feel much like laughing now. People died in that theatre, _innocent_ people.

And Roth.

He rubs a hand across his mouth. He doesn’t – he can’t think about Roth. Roth is _dead_.

He pulls the handkerchief out of his pocket. He doesn’t know why. Just to check that Roth’s lifeblood is still on it. Just to be sure it was real.

“You got your target, then?” Arno’s standing beside him. His voice sounds strangely flat. Empty. Maybe that’s just the way things are going to sound from now on. “I suppose that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Jacob feels like the target got him. He feels that Roth’s still alive in his head, smirking and calling him pet names like Jacob’s his fucking pet. And there was always that little thrill, wasn’t there, with every _dear_ , every _darling_...

He needs to forget about Maxwell Roth, to stop feeling like his mind belongs to someone else. Or he needs to... to fill this space inside him that he can’t put a name to, that he never even knew was there until...

He can still taste Roth’s blood in his mouth.

But Arno is here. Something that’s actually _good_ in his life. Someone who’ll go along with his terrible plans and laugh about them with him afterwards, someone who believes in more than the pleasure of causing pain. Someone who...

He looks over at Arno, and then he can’t stop looking. Arno isn’t meeting his eyes, his gaze is still on the handkerchief, and maybe – maybe there’s a way to get Roth out of his head, if he can find something just as strong to force him away.

“Arno,” Jacob says.

Arno glances in his direction, and Jacob kisses him.

For an instant, Arno goes absolutely still. Then he seizes Jacob by the hair, he balls his other fist in Jacob’s jacket, he’s kissing him so hard that Jacob can barely think. Jacob presses back, fighting to keep his balance, trying to somehow get closer. This is what he needs, this is _perfect_ —

—and Arno is shuddering, Arno is shaking his head, Arno is pushing him away.

Jacob has to swallow twice before he can speak. “I thought...”

Arno was kissing him so passionately a moment ago; how can he suddenly...?

“I can’t – I thought it might be a distraction,” Arno says. He isn’t looking at Jacob. “But all I can think of is her.”

Arno’s voice is thick, and Jacob suddenly realises he’s been crying. He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he didn’t even notice.

Arno meets his eyes at last. Jacob’s stomach constricts at the look. God, how did he not realise sooner?

“Élise is dead, Jacob.”

Jacob goes cold. He isn’t thinking that this gives him a chance. He’s thinking that nothing could put them further apart. Arno will be a different person without her. If Élise is dead, the Arno Jacob knew is dead as well.

He tries to speak, but what the fuck do you say to that?

He sits down on the pavement instead. Stares at the burning theatre. Tries not to think about Arno dragging him out of that storehouse, all those months ago.

_I thought it might be a distraction._

Well, Jacob was doing the same thing, wasn’t he? Just... using Arno as a distraction from Roth. It didn’t have to be Arno. It could’ve been anyone else. Why should he care, if all that was for Arno was a few seconds of distraction from the love of his life?

What right does Jacob even have to feel sorry for himself? Élise was _everything_ to Arno, and now he’s lost her.

He looks up at Arno. “Sit down with me.”

“I don’t know exactly what you want from me,” Arno says, carefully. “But I don’t think I can...”

“I just want you to sit with me,” Jacob says. “You’re miserable and I’m miserable. We might as well not be miserable alone.”

He can see Arno’s thoughts written so clearly across his expression. Élise is dead; he’ll always be alone. Jacob can’t change that just by being there.

But he sits down beside him, all the same.

It’s started to rain. Jacob doesn’t have the energy to move out of it. But maybe it’ll help to put out the theatre fire before it does any more damage.

They fall asleep on a rainy London street, leaning against each other, and when Jacob wakes he’s on his own.


	11. Chapter 11

“Oh, _Evie_. Sensible Evie. Sensible ‘Jacob, I don’t think that’s a good idea’ Evie. Sensible ‘I’m above pickpocketing’ Evie.”

Evie opens her eyes.

Bars. She’s in a cell. And she can’t recall how she got there, but... well, Jacob is next to her, and Jacob’s presence generally explains situations like this.

“You got us _arrested_?” she asks.

“ _I_ got us arrested?” Jacob asks, pressing a hand over his heart. “So quick to accuse, Evie. I’m not even here. I’m visiting.”

“ _You’re_ visiting,” Evie echoes, to clarify. “Not me. I’m the one who’s actually in the cell. _You’re_ the innocent passer-by. You. Jacob Frye.”

“Haven’t done a thing,” Jacob says, cheerfully. “You’re the one who got hauled in here.”

“But why? I haven’t...” She falters. _I haven’t done anything illegal_ : not technically true. But she’s fairly certain she hasn’t done anything that would get her _caught_. “Did you say I was pickpocketing?”

Jacob grins at her. “You’re a menace to society, Evie Frye.”

“I don’t remember a thing.”

“I was there,” Jacob says. “I would’ve stopped you, obviously, but you _did_ say you’d cut my bollocks off if I ever took over your body.”

Evie doubles over, pressing her aching head into her hands. It was that man, she’s sure, the one she was investigating on behalf of Mr Dickens, the one who was making people steal his pawned property back for him. She tries to push past the voice in her head saying _no, you’re mistaken, he’s innocent_ , tries to focus on what she knows in her gut. He _made_ her do this.

“I’ll waive that threat if someone else is controlling me,” she says. “I don’t like the idea of you puppeting my body, but I’d trust you over _some_ people.”

“You’re saying someone was controlling you?” Jacob asks. “How was I to know you hadn’t just decided to go on a crime spree? Was it Edward?”

“Not a visitor,” Evie says. Her mind shies away when she tries to remember, but she makes all the effort she can. “A hypnotist, I think.”

Jacob crows with laughter. “A _hypnotist_?”

He doesn’t stop waving his arms in front of her face and informing her that she’s getting sleepy until his visit, thankfully, ends. Evie sits in the corner of her cell and buries her face in her arms.

After a while, the air changes around her and suddenly she’s surrounded by the noises of Desmond’s time, the rush of cars. Whoever she’s visiting, at least she knows it isn’t her bloody brother.

She gets to her feet and looks around for a face she recognises. It’s only a moment before she sees a familiar figure walking past.

“Connor,” she says.

Connor pauses in his stride for only an instant, meeting her eyes. He gives her a barely perceptible nod, a jerk of his head, and she falls into step beside him, weaving through the crowds on the pavement.

Evie has to smile when Connor pulls out his telephone. She wishes she could tell Mr Bell how successful his invention will be, how everyone in the future will own one. And of course there’s a little thrill at knowing they’ll have the name _she_ suggested.

Connor presses the telephone to his ear. “Evie. Hello.”

He always does this when they’re in public; he dislikes being seen apparently talking to himself, so he pretends to be speaking to someone on the telephone. There’s a part of Evie that wishes she could have such an easy excuse in her own time. “What are you up to?”

“Abstergo is preventing food supplies from reaching a team of Assassins,” Connor says. “I intend to remove the obstruction. What of you and your brother?”

“ _Don’t_ ask about Jacob,” Evie says.

Connor nods. “What of you?”

“I’m in prison,” Evie says. “To be honest, it isn’t an ideal situation.”

Connor looks sharply at her. “You were caught? Has a sentence been passed?”

Evie shakes her head. “I wasn’t caught killing, thankfully. It’s... well, it’s a rather strange story.”

She half-expects Connor to laugh at her when she tells him exactly what happened: investigating the thefts, confronting the hypnotist, falling victim to his tricks. He asks what a hypnotist is, and she’s instantly convinced that he’ll dismiss her story; hypnotism is unheard of in the time he’s originally from, it seems, and she’s sure it must sound like nonsense to him. But he only listens to her explanation in silence, perfectly serious.

“I’m not especially worried about being locked up,” she says at last. “I’m sure Jacob will come looking for me sooner or later. He might already be on his way, if he was visiting from the same time. He’ll be insufferable, if he _does_ free me, but I’ll survive.”

“But you still seem troubled,” Connor says.

She hesitates.

“I feel I don’t have control of my own mind,” she says. “I can’t stand it. What if it happens again?”

Connor considers this in silence for a while.

“I cannot say I have experienced the same thing as you,” he says, eventually. “But I have been manipulated.”

“Was there anything you could do?” Evie asks. “To feel you had power over yourself again?”

“Can you kill the man who exploited you?”

Evie smiles at that. “It’s certainly tempting,” she says. “But he’s only a thief, as far as I can tell. We don’t take lives as payment for trinkets.”

“You had a contact in the police force,” Connor says. “Do you still work with him? Do you trust him not to arrest you if you escape and approach him?”

“Sergeant Abberline?” Evie asks. “Yes, I think he’s reliable. He’ll complain that I’m compromising his job, but I don’t think he’ll actually take me in. They might actually let me out, in any case, if they believe I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“Bring the magician to him,” Connor says. “You will feel safer with him imprisoned.”

In theory, it’s an appealing prospect. But it’s hard to imagine actively seeking that man out, putting herself at risk of losing herself again.

Connor must read her thoughts in her face. “Your brother could help,” he says.

Evie shakes her head, fiercely. “I’ll take him in myself.” And then, after a moment, she adds, “You’ve been kind. Thank you.”

She’s never known entirely what to make of Connor. For a while she’d thought him unfriendly. Perhaps he’s only quiet.

“I wish you luck,” Connor says. “Whatever happens, remember that your mind is your own.”


	12. Chapter 12

Shay still remembers the face of everyone he’s killed. Everyone since Lisbon. You take someone’s life, you should remember them; you owe them that much.

The thing about killing people, though, is that’s usually the _last_ time you see them. Well, unless you’re Connor.

So it’s a little disconcerting to find himself in a hallway with Charles Dorian.

He’s dreamt before of meeting the ghosts of people he’s killed, of trying to explain himself to them and falling short. But Dorian isn’t looking at Shay, doesn’t seem able to see him, and the people in his dreams _stare_. This is a visit.

It takes Shay a moment to register Dorian’s companion: a small boy, eight or so.

“Can’t I go with you, Father?”

It’s like ice in Shay’s lungs. He can’t be here; he can’t watch this boy with the father Shay will end up depriving him of. Maybe it’s cowardice, but he looks around for a distraction, for the person he’s visiting. Arno, presumably.

Arno Dorian.

Oh, God, no. No.

It’s not as if it hasn’t ever crossed his mind, two French Assassins named Dorian, decades apart. But... well, it’s not an unusual-sounding name. It’s not as if every Miles is close to Desmond. And he knows Arno wasn’t seen into the Assassins by family; they picked him up while he was in prison. Shay’s been able to convince himself that it’d be too much of a coincidence, the man he visits being related to the man he killed.

He’s never asked Arno whether he knew Charles. Maybe he’s been afraid of the answer.

And here’s Arno with Charles Dorian, calling him _father_. In the Palais de Versailles. In the hallway where...

It’s that day. Shay knows it, he _knows_ it. He remembers the clothes Dorian was wearing, he remembers that he’d had to walk past his target’s son (not Arno, not Arno, _no_ ). This is the day he kills Charles Dorian.

This is the day he kills Arno’s father.

-

Under any other circumstances, Shay would have been interested to see what seems to be Arno’s first meeting with Élise, but all he can think about is what he’s done. What he’s about to do. He keeps losing his focus, standing blankly in one place until Arno moves out of range and drags him along.

Arno casts a couple of uncertain glances at Shay, but soon he seems to forget any concerns in playing with Élise, stealing apples and dodging guards.

A man is about to walk straight in and murder Charles Dorian, Shay finds himself thinking, and the guards are out here chasing children. He doesn’t – he doesn’t _want_ the guards to catch his past self, and of course he knows they won’t, and yet there’s a part of him willing them to _do their job, protect the guests_.

But no. As Arno and Élise retreat to chatter excitedly at each other, Shay watches himself walk past unobstructed. It feels like a dream.

Can he prevent what’s about to happen, somehow? Possess Arno, perhaps? Talk to the other Shay, or try to protect Charles Dorian? Arno will be in no danger; Shay trusts himself not to harm a child, at least.

But he can’t, of course. He can’t imagine how history might change if the Assassins retain possession of that box. And, after this, Shay – the younger Shay, in soul if not in body – will return to Paris to report his victory to the Order there, and he will meet an Aveline from before she loved him. What if that meeting never takes place, if they never have their day in Paris together? What if that moment was the one that started to soften Aveline’s thoughts towards him, and he writes it out of their history?

It’s a selfish thought, he knows, but it’s one he can’t keep from his mind.

So he stands there, and he does nothing, and he takes in every instant of these last few seconds before Arno’s life falls apart.

-

The watch falls from Arno’s hand when he sees the body. The watch his father gave him.

Shay doesn’t need a watch. He can count time in the knowledge pulsing through him every second, over and over: he killed a friend’s father, and he went back to that moment, and he did nothing to stop it.

It probably wouldn’t have been possible to stop it. That doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t even try.

Shay drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Arno, as tightly as he can.

_I’ll make this right,_ he wants to say, but how? It can’t be done.

There’s a rush of small footsteps, and a moment later the young Élise has thrown her arms around Arno, forcing Shay out of the way, although she can’t see or feel him. “ _No_ ,” she’s saying, “you’re not alone, I’m here, Father is here...”

It must look sad to her, Shay realises, the sight of Arno seemingly embracing himself. Less sad than the truth: the person holding him was the man who’d killed his father.

“Father wants to speak to you,” Élise says, steering Arno away with an arm around his shoulders. He moves without protest; he seems barely aware that she’s there. And Shay realises...

“The watch,” he says, urgently. “Arno, your father’s watch!”

He has to say it twice more before it seems to gain a foothold in Arno’s mind. Arno meets Shay’s gaze, his eyes blank, and then looks back at the watch they’re leaving behind on the floor. He half-stretches out a hand towards it. Élise turns, gives a little _oh!_ and hurries back to pick it up.

So he’ll have something to remember his father by, at least. The father Shay killed. _Christ_.

Monsieur de la Serre has joined them now, his daughter and the newly orphaned boy he’ll have to raise, and—

“Shay!”

— _fuck_ , no. It’s Desmond. Shay isn’t ready to explain this.

For a moment he and Desmond stare at each other from across the hall, and then Shay bolts. He thinks he might see Desmond disappear as he breaks into a run, but he isn’t about to linger to check – he knows he won’t be able to run far, not while he’s visiting, but he can worry about that a few seconds from now when he reaches the limit of his range – he—

—he’s hurled himself violently out of bed, and for an instant he just lies on the floor, breathing hard.

“Shay?” Aveline asks, alarmed.

He wants to believe it was a dream. It was a visit. He knows the difference.

“Arno,” Shay says, getting to his feet. His voice is shaking. His legs are shaking. “Aveline, his father’s Charles Dorian.”

Aveline hesitates. Shay stares at her.

“You _knew_?” he asks. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me?”

“He mentioned his father was an Assassin,” Aveline says. “I asked who he was.”

Shay laughs mirthlessly. “We’re on our second lifetime together, and you’re still keeping secrets from me.”

“You’re a Templar,” Aveline says. “I am an Assassin. I love you with all my heart, but there will always be secrets between us.”

Shay has to sit down on the bed; he can’t stay upright a second longer.

“How did you find out?” Aveline asks, gently.

“I saw them,” Shay says. “It was the day Dorian died. I saw myself walk past to kill him. I _saw_ Arno realise his father was dead.”

Aveline sits up beside him, rests an arm across his back. He puts a hand on her belly, but the knowledge of their child growing in there, their first in this new life, can no longer calm him; it only makes him think of fathers and children and families torn apart.

“Does Arno know it was you?” Aveline asks.

“I don’t think so,” Shay says. “I have to tell him.”

“Don’t.”

“I _have_ to, Aveline, it’ll eat me alive if I don’t.”

“Have you not seen the lengths he will go to to avenge Monsieur de la Serre?” Aveline asks. “Do you believe he will forgive and forget?”

Shay shakes his head. “I’m not looking to be forgiven. But it’s right for him to know.”

“And if he visits me when we’re asleep together?” She touches his cheek. “If he possesses me? If I have to see you killed by my hand?”

Shay tries to smile. “What, you think I can’t defend myself?”

“Against Arno?” Aveline says, softly. “When he’s in me? With the baby, perhaps?”

“He wouldn’t use someone who loves me,” Shay says. “He doesn’t have that cruelty in him.” All he can think of is possessing Connor to attack Achilles, a lifetime ago. “And I don’t think...” He has to dig his fingers into his leg to keep himself talking. “I don’t think he’d leave our child fatherless.”


	13. Chapter 13

Edward had to show up when Evie was creeping through his mansion, of course. It’s difficult to concentrate on the task at hand when the mansion’s former owner is strolling along next to her, exclaiming fondly over all his model ships. At least she doesn’t have to put up with Jacob for now; he’s searching the opposite wing. It’s usually impossible to interest Jacob in the search for Pieces of Eden, but he insisted on coming to see ‘the visitor house’.

“Couldn’t you tell me where to look?” Evie hisses at Edward.

“More fun if you have to hunt for it yourself,” Edward says. “I wouldn’t be getting this tour of the old place if you’d gone straight for the prize.”

Evie rounds on him, anger on her tongue, but she’s arrested by the expression on his face. She turns to see what he’s looking at.

It’s a picture on the wall. A sketch of a young man. His bandana is painted in red, but the rest is black and white.

She looks back at Edward, curious. Someone he knew, she thinks. Someone he misses.

“Altaïr drew that for me,” Edward says. “In my body, of course. My wife never understood why I could only draw _sometimes_.” He nods to the picture. “You remember Kidd?”

Evie shakes her head.

“You met her once,” Edward says. “Before the Shroud undid it.”

She’s a woman? Evie wouldn’t have realised. But it seems impolite to express surprise, so she holds her tongue.

“You kissed her, actually,” Edward mutters. “You and every other visitor.”

“Excuse me, what?” Evie asks.

“Kidd. You kissed her. Well, you asked her to kiss you, and she was far too happy to oblige.”

_What?_ “Not possible, surely. I’d have been visiting.”

“You were in my body. I don’t know why I kept letting people talk to her. It always ended poorly.”

Evie stares at him for a moment, then shakes her head. “You said I only met you – what, once, twice, before the Shroud? Why would I kiss someone I don’t even know? And a woman, at that?”

“She’s Kidd,” Edward says, as if this explains everything.

The look on his face makes Evie feel awkward, intrusive. “You loved her.”

Edward’s silent for a moment. “Aye, I suppose I did.”

“I’d like to believe I wouldn’t meet a strange woman and immediately kiss her in front of a man who loves her, in his body,” Evie says.

“Believe what you like, but that’s what happened,” Edward says. “In fairness, you were less than sober. Well, I was.”

He doesn’t seem to be trying to tease. Perhaps it’s true. Although Evie finds it hard to imagine how.

“So why is everyone insisting that I marry Mr Green?” Evie asks. “Why isn’t it so _vitally_ important that I kiss this Kidd again?”

Edward shrugs. “You were happy with him,” he says. “Or you seemed it. And it didn’t cause me any misery when you kissed _Henry_.”

She shouldn’t have brought Mr Green up. She doesn’t want to hear any more about how they’re _supposed_ to be together, how she doesn’t have any control over her own life. It makes her so angry to think of it; maybe there could have been something there, maybe there have been moments when she’s felt drawn to him, but she can’t give in to it, not when she’s being told she has no other choice. The visitors didn’t rob her of a future with Mr Green when they apparently undid her life; they robbed her of that future by _telling_ her about it.

But Edward’s thoughts still seem to be on Kidd, fortunately. “Wish you still had the chance to kiss her, though. At least it’d mean I could see her again.”

“I’m still finding it hard to believe,” Evie says. “I’ve never kissed a woman. I don’t think I’d... well, at the very least I’d have expected a longer acquaintance.”

“Not sure you knew she was a woman, to tell the truth,” Edward says. “She went amongst pirates as James.”

“Oh!” Evie remembers one of her early meetings with Ned Wynert, a slightly awkward conversation they’d had, Evie trying to make sense of a concept new to her. “And... would she mind us standing around, talking of her like this?”

“She’d laugh at me for missing her,” Edward says, with a shrug. “I don’t know that I’d say she’d _mind_.”

“Talking of her as a woman, I mean.”

Edward looks at her for a moment. “Think it’d depend on the guise she wore,” he says. “And she can’t change her guises now.”

Evie nods. “Sorry. I should have trusted you knew how to speak of her.”

Edward shakes his head. “Don’t apologise. I was risking her secret twice a day. She’d like you for thinking about it. You should’ve known each other better.”

“I’d have liked to know her,” Evie says. “She seems interesting.”

Edward gives her a hard look. “Not _too_ much better, mind.”

Evie flushes. “If you’re not going to help me, I should keep looking.”


	14. Chapter 14

Half of Shay’s insides seem to vanish when he realises he’s in the Café Theatre. He’s been telling himself that he’ll have to tell Arno the truth on his next visit, about who killed his father. Selfishly, he’s been hoping to see an older Arno, so he can confess in the knowledge that they can still be friends in Arno’s youth. But no; this Arno is still in his twenties. Shay can’t remember ever seeing him beyond them.

Arno’s been reading through a letter, but he tucks it away and smiles at Shay when he notices he has company. Shay makes an effort to smile back.

“Something wrong?” Arno asks, his smile fading.

Shay knows he has to confess. He can’t look Arno in the eye, knowing what he’s done; he can barely look at himself in the mirror. He just... it’s just hard to know where to start. There’s no good way to do this.

“Shay?” Arno asks, getting to his feet.

“You don’t talk much about your father,” Shay says.

“My birth father?” Arno asks, apparently taken aback. He pauses for a moment. “I suppose not. He died when I was young. Murdered, actually. And... that day’s so clear in my mind that it’s all I can think of when I think of him. It doesn’t make for very cheerful conversation.”

“You’re so determined to avenge Master de la Serre,” Shay says.

Arno shakes his head. “I was the one who killed him,” he says, quietly.

Shay’s mind is so full of what he has to say that he almost lets that pass without comment. “You didn’t, Arno. Believe me. I’ve slain enough friends to know the difference.”

And if he’s about to lose another friend here, at least Arno will be walking away alive.

“But you’ve put so much effort into finding the one who _did_ kill him,” Shay says. “Have you never...” Arno is beginning to look stubborn, angry, and Shay quickly doubles back. “I don’t mean to say you loved your birth father any less. I know it isn’t that simple.” The way Shay parted with Hope, with Liam, it wouldn’t have looked like love from outside. Doesn’t change the way he felt about them. “But have you never thought of seeking his killer?”

Arno shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Perhaps I might have, if I’d been older when I lost him. But I was a child. How was I to know where to begin?”

“You’re a man grown now.”

“I’ve made a few efforts to learn what happened,” Arno says. “But the trail went cold long ago, as far as I can tell.”

Shay’s chest tightens. He’s been looking. “What if I visited the day of your father’s death? What if I could tell you who killed him?”

Arno stares at him for a long moment.

“I don’t know if I have the time to pursue a second killer.” He says it lightly, but Shay can’t miss the sudden tension in the way Arno is holding himself. “It wasn’t Monsieur de la Serre?”

“What?” Shay asks, startled. “No.”

Arno lets out a long, relieved breath.

“You thought it might have been Master de la Serre?” Shay asks.

Arno rolls his shoulders awkwardly. “I’ve been trying not to think it. But ever since I found out my father and Monsieur de la Serre belonged to opposing secret societies... well, it’s been hard not to wonder.”

“Master de la Serre knew nothing of it,” Shay says. A lie, of course. Shay could never have carried out such a delicate mission in Versailles without informing the local Grand Master of his intentions. But he’s loath to hurt Arno more than he already has. “It was me.”

“It was—” Arno pauses, swallows. It’s a moment before he speaks again. “What was you, exactly?”

He knows exactly what Shay means. Maybe he’s hoping for another answer, maybe he’s just buying some time to react, but it’s clear he knows.

“I didn’t know he was your father,” Shay says. “I swear to you.”

“And you...” Arno’s voice is wavering. “You possessed me?”

It takes Shay a moment to realise what he’s asking. “No! God, no, I wouldn’t – I didn’t make _you_ – I was there that day. As myself. Back in my first life.”

They look at each other for a moment, Shay so tense he can feel every twitch of his muscles. He can’t read the look on Arno’s face.

“Why did you kill him?” Arno asks at last.

“He had something important,” Shay says. It sounds so weak to his ears. “I’d been hunting it for decades.”

Arno steps back like he’s been struck. “You killed my father to _rob him_?”

Shay wants to say he didn’t have a choice, to say you don’t try to _pickpocket_ a trained Assassin, not for something this important, not if you want to leave alive. All his cold logic when the box was finally within his grasp, it seems twisted and petty and ridiculous now. He’d been searching almost two decades; what would a few hours more have been? He could have waited and watched, seen where Dorian was planning to hide the box, judged whether there was some way to steal it without bloodshed. He was impatient, and a man died.

“I’m sorry,” Shay says. “I wish I could give you something more than that.”

Arno begins to pace. It’s something Shay’s seen him do a couple of times before, but usually he keeps his eyes on the floor. Now he keeps throwing glances over at Shay, as if he doesn’t trust him not to attack at any moment.

At last Arno stops. Looks straight at Shay, with such intensity that Shay can’t meet his eyes.

“Aveline was nothing to do with it,” Shay says at once, before Arno can speak.

“And it’s for her sake that you’ll live through my next visit to you,” Arno says. “If there’s any truth in your remorse, you will not speak to me again.”

Shay nods. His throat is so tight he’s not sure he could say anything if he tried.

“I cared for you,” Arno says. It’s clear that he’s trying to speak coldly, but there’s a tremor behind it. Shay would breathe easier if he could hear nothing but ice. “It seems it wasn’t enough for you to kill my father. You’ve killed my friend Shay.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noncanonical scene time! Because this ’verse isn’t confusing enough already. This is an alternative ending for [chapter 96 of _Visitorial_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5889880/chapters/15191689), in a universe where Jacob is younger when he sees the kiss.

Since the Shroud gave her cursed memories back, Evie’s taken to working in her carriage with the door locked, trying to distract herself from her tangle of feelings for Desmond and Henry. It can’t keep visitors out, of course, but at least it lets her feel as if she has a _little_ control over her life.

It’s an illusion swiftly broken when Jacob _picks the lock_ to enter, of course.

“You could at least have knocked first,” Evie says.

“Sorry,” Jacob says. “I really wanted to talk to you.”

“I might have let you in if you’d knocked. It would have saved you some time.”

Jacob ignores this. “You know you’re in love with two men?”

“I vaguely recall, yes,” Evie says acidly. “God forbid I be allowed to think of anything else for a moment.”

“D’you think there’s room for one more?”

Evie looks at Jacob for a long moment.

“I can’t begin to imagine why you’re asking me that,” she says at last.

“Arno,” Jacob says.

Evie stares at him. “You’ll have to expand.”

“He’s taken Élise’s death hard,” Jacob says. “Well, I mean, of course he has. But I think he might be happier with... someone. And maybe what you need is to leave Greenie and Desmond behind, find something new without all the...” He flaps his hands, vaguely. “Without everything.”

“Jacob,” Evie says, trying to keep her voice gentle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jacob says. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m not you.”

“We’re twins,” Jacob says. “We’re – we’re the closest two people can be.”

Evie shakes her head. “Do you really think you’ll be happier if I’m with Arno?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be easier, knowing he’s happy with someone I care about. I mean, as long as he’s on his own...”

“There’s a part of you that’s hoping,” Evie says, quietly.

“I know I should forget it,” Jacob says. “I don’t think I can.”

“But what makes you think he’d be any more interested in me?” Evie asks. “You’re closer to him than I am.”

“He kissed you once,” Jacob says.

Evie hesitates.

She’s been afraid of this conversation. She hadn’t known when Jacob was visiting from when he’d shown up to shout at her for kissing Arno, but he hadn’t looked noticeably older than _her_ Jacob, so she’s lived the time since then in the knowledge that he might come back from that visit and accost her at any moment. In the first few months she’d been angry at the thought, prepared to snap at him if he tried to dictate who she could or couldn’t spend her time with.

And then she’d learnt that he was in love with Arno.

Jacob is fidgeting in the silence. Eventually he speaks again. “Well, once that I saw. I suppose I’ve no way of knowing if that was the only time.”

“It was,” Evie says. “I’m sorry. It was... it wasn’t long after we came to London. I didn’t know how you felt. If I’d known how much it would upset you—”

“It’s fine,” Jacob says. “I’ve been thinking. And Arno doesn’t want me, and he looked like he was enjoying himself with you, so...” He shifts on his feet. “I shouldn’t stand in your way.”

“We’re not lovers you’re keeping apart, Jacob. Arno is tied to Élise.” She sees Jacob flinch, but it has to be said. Whether she visits Arno before or after Élise’s death, it’s clear that she’s what love means to him. It’s painful to visit him while she lives, now that Evie knows what waits in his future, but not as painful as it is to see her brother like this. “And my heart lies...” Where does her heart lie? With Henry? With Desmond? The part with Jacob is the only part she’s sure of. “My heart lies elsewhere. It was one kiss.”

Jacob is silent for a moment. “What did it feel like? Kissing him when he wants you.”

There’s something in his voice that tears at Evie. “He wanted Élise. I was a diversion while she was away.”

“When he’s enjoying it, then,” Jacob says. “Evie...”

She takes hold of his wrist. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“He’d have taken you to bed if he could,” Jacob says. “You could see it in his face. And elsewhere.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’re not Élise, but it’s more than I could ever get from him.”

“It was dreadful,” Evie says. She’d been enjoying herself, and Jacob likely knows it, but she’d sooner be untruthful than unkind. “You’re not missing anything.”

Jacob laughs dryly. “Thanks.”


	16. Chapter 16

Arno knows death more intimately than most, and yet still this doesn’t feel real. He’s lying next to Élise on the cold floor of the Temple, her hand slack in his, and some part of him is convinced that she’ll blink any moment now, that she’ll sit up and shake back her hair and laugh at him for worrying over her. Any moment now. Any moment...

“Oh, Christ,” a low voice says, behind him. “Élise.”

Arno tightens his hold on her hand.

“Is she...?”

“She’s dead,” Arno says. The words feel like blocks of wood he’s forcing up through his throat.

“Arno,” Shay says, softly, “I know you probably don’t want to hear it from me, but I am so sorry.”

Arno can barely make sense of what he’s saying, can’t think of anything but Élise. She was going to be his future. He hadn’t been sure of exactly what he’d do after Monsieur de la Serre was avenged, but he’d known she would be by his side. They would have had a family together, perhaps, when they both felt ready for it. They...

He tries to bite back a sob. Almost manages it. But the edge of it forces itself out, a pathetic little noise.

Shay crouches behind him, puts a tentative hand on Arno’s side, and Arno grips it with his free hand. Just to feel the warmth, the pulse behind it. Just to know there’s still life in the world somewhere.

-

It’s not until days later that Arno’s mind dully starts to wake to the questions that have been hovering there, everything he hasn’t had space to think about since Élise died. Jacob kissed him. That’s the first.

And then there’s Shay.

_I know you probably don’t want to hear it from me._ It hadn’t meant anything to Arno at the time. But of course Shay was the one to kill his father; he had no right to console Arno over the death of someone he loved.

And yet, even if Arno can think that now, he can’t _feel_ it. Shay’s presence... it didn’t do much to make things better, nothing could have helped much, but it was something. Without Shay, he might have spent even longer lying there, alone, with Élise’s body. Days, perhaps.

He thinks back to it now, and he can’t be angry. Perhaps anger is something dead inside him.

-

Shay quickly excuses himself from the room when he sees Arno. There were occasions when this happened before Arno learnt who killed his father; he’d been hurt and confused at the time, not knowing that Shay was doing it to respect his future wishes. The haphazard nature of visiting can make things difficult sometimes.

Of course, there was also the time an earlier Shay visited and was bewildered by Arno’s hostility. Arno had been viciously pleased at the time. It seems cruel, now, to have punished someone for a crime he hadn’t known he’d committed.

“Shay,” he calls.

No response.

“Shay, I know you haven’t gone far,” Arno says. “Who else is here for me to be visiting?”

Not only that, but this looks like a hotel room. Arno’s seen a good number of twenty-first-century hotel rooms by now, and he’s fairly certain Shay’s just shut himself in the en-suite bathroom.

Shay looks around the door. “Didn’t mean to be unsociable,” he says, guardedly. “When have you come from?”

“I know what happened to my father, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to talk.”

Shay edges back into the room with clear reluctance. “I’ll hear whatever you have to say. I deserve it.”

“We were friends once,” Arno says.

Shay smiles a little, sadly. “I like to think so.”

“My father is gone.” He sees Shay wince at that. “Monsieur de la Serre is gone. Élise is gone.” It’s still so hard to say the words.

“I’m sorry,” Shay says quietly.

Arno looks at him for a moment.

“Do you know what I keep thinking?” he asks at last. “If you hadn’t killed my father, Élise might still be alive.”

Shay takes a step back.

“The letter might have gone to someone who would deliver it.” Arno shakes his head. “I might never have known the father or the daughter as I did, but perhaps they would be safe.”

“I swear,” Shay says, “if I could undo it, any of it—”

“And that’s the only thing that’s kept me alive,” Arno says, speaking over him. “You’re not the reason the de la Serres died. I was the one who killed both of them. But I can tell myself you were the villain, and it makes it easier to live with all the mistakes I’ve made.”

Shay falls silent.

Arno shifts. “In any case, how things might have been different doesn’t matter. All we have is our reality, and in mine I’ve no friends left in my own time. I don’t think I can afford to push my visitors away.”

Shay hesitates. “You’re saying...?”

“I’ve missed you,” Arno says. He holds out a hand.

Shay takes it. And Arno was aiming for a handshake – awkward and formal, perhaps, but a tentative step towards rebuilding their friendship – but somehow they’re just standing there, holding hands.

It makes Arno think of Élise, of her hand cooling in his on the Temple floor. Everything makes him think of Élise. He tries to speak and chokes on the memories.

He can’t see Shay’s expression through the tears suddenly blurring his eyes, but he can hear the concern in his voice. “Arno?”

Arno can only shake his head. And then Shay is guiding him to sit on the bed, is sitting next to Arno with an arm around his back, and...

“I’ll be back in my own time any moment,” Arno says, quietly. It’s humiliating to say it aloud, but he can’t keep it pent up in his chest, the knowledge that this comfort is fleeting, the knowledge that he’s facing a lifetime alone. “There’s nobody for me there.”

“There’s us,” Shay says, tightening his hold. “Not all the time. But enough, maybe.”

Arno closes his eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after [chapter 128 of _Visitorial_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5889880/chapters/15877327), which was posted a few hours ago; I strongly recommend reading that first!

“Desmond tells me congratulations are in order,” Haytham says, smiling.

Evie quickly tries to look like she hasn’t been weeping, or at least like she’s only been weeping for joy.

“Evie?”

“Thank you,” Evie says, pasting on a smile that she hopes will look less wavering than it feels. “I’m sorry, can you give me a moment?”

At least it wasn’t Edward or Ezio who walked in on her like this, or, God forbid, Jacob. (And yet there’s a part of her that yearns for her brother in this moment.) Haytham can usually be trusted to respect her need for space.

But he doesn’t leave. He hesitates for a moment, and then he sits beside her on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you are betrothed to Desmond. If you’re having second thoughts, we must tell him at once, before this becomes any more painful than necessary.”

Evie quickly draws breath to say that no, that isn’t it at all, and then what he just said catches her attention. _We_ must tell him at once. He’d be willing to stand beside her to deliver the news, if she had to cause Desmond that sort of pain?

It’s not a position she plans to put him in, but she’s grateful for the thought. It’s a reminder that Haytham is a friend; an enemy too, but secondarily, distantly. It makes her feel stronger, somehow.

“I want to marry Desmond,” she says. “I’m in no doubt about that.”

Haytham’s relief is plain on his face. “So what troubles you?”

Evie wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “I know it’s ridiculous. I can’t stop thinking of Henry.”

“That is far from ridiculous,” Haytham says, quietly.

“I’ve had so much more than I could ask for,” Evie says. “I was married to Henry for a _lifetime_. And now I have a second lifetime with a second man I love, but...”

“He isn’t Henry,” Haytham says. “And you may love Desmond absolutely, but Henry is lost to you. It is a pain I’ve known, I promise you.”

It’s such a blunt way of putting it that it doesn’t seem it should make things better, but there’s something comforting just in hearing the turmoil inside her head expressed aloud.

She shakes her head. “I should have told him about visiting. I wish I could have had his blessing for this.”

-

Haytham has wondered more than once whether visiting has some sort of intelligence; visits so often seem to happen exactly when they’re needed, or at the worst possible moment. Fortunately, this seems to be one of the former cases. He has been dwelling for days on Evie’s guilt about marrying Desmond; she hides it well around the others, but when she’s alone with Haytham she sometimes lets it break through.

And now Haytham finds himself in India. Evie is here, fast asleep. But _Henry_ is here, more importantly. It seems almost cruel that Haytham can still see Henry through visiting, can still see Élise, when Evie and Arno will never see them again.

Haytham focuses, pushes his consciousness away from himself, and suddenly he’s in Evie’s body, in Evie’s bed.

With her husband. Who is idly tracing patterns with his fingers on Haytham’s bare back – on _Evie’s_ back.

Haytham shivers, intensely aware of every touch. Perhaps this was a mistake. This is... very strange.

“Evie?” Henry asks. “Are you awake?”

“Er,” Haytham says. “I suppose so.”

Henry frowns and pulls Haytham closer. “Is something wrong?”

He’s speaking quietly, thankfully. Haytham wouldn’t like to have to explain himself if Evie woke up and caught him in bed with her husband.

Haytham has a purpose here. He needs to fulfil it and remove himself before this becomes any more uncomfortable.

It’s a difficult subject to raise without arousing suspicion, but perhaps there’s a way.

“I’m sorry,” Haytham says. “I dreamt you’d died. It was upsetting.”

“Oh, Evie.” Henry brushes back a few stray strands of Evie’s hair, and—

—kisses Haytham on the lips, and in that single bizarre instant Haytham wrongs Henry, Evie, Shay and Aveline simultaneously.

Haytham rolls over to face away from him, in the hope of deterring further affection. He is here to settle Evie’s conscience, certainly not to conduct himself improperly with her husband. If he and Evie are both fortunate, perhaps Henry will think the dream only made it difficult to look upon him.

“That wasn’t all,” Haytham says. “I remarried in the dream. But all I could think of was how I was betraying you.”

Facing away from him, he can only think of Ziio.

“But I was dead,” Henry says. “I mean... no, I’m not dead. But – listen, Evie.” He reaches over Evie to lace his fingers through hers. Or reaches over Haytham to lace his fingers through his, perhaps. “If I were lucky enough to die before you, I would want you to be happy. If that would mean being with someone else, that’s what I want for you.”

Haytham tries to speak, but thoughts of Ziio have drowned his words. He’ll never hear this from her.

What would having her blessing matter? She died wanting nothing to do with him. Is he betraying her memory by being with Shay and Aveline, or is he betraying her by being happy at all?

He holds Henry’s hand tighter. It’s the only thing he can manage.

-

“Evie,” Haytham says, when he next sees her. “May I have a private word?”

He’d hoped to keep his voice steady, but from her look of frank alarm he suspects he may not have succeeded. She draws him quickly into the room she shares with Desmond, which is currently empty; Edward has decided that he’s going to teach himself to cook, and Desmond’s taken to hovering uneasily around the kitchen, trying not to look like he’s supervising.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Is someone hurt? Is it Jacob?”

“Everyone is fine, to my knowledge,” Haytham says. “I’m here because I visited you. I spoke to Henry.”

Evie goes very still for a moment.

“But you can’t have,” she says. Her voice sounds strange, too controlled. “I would remember if you’d spoken to him.”

“You were asleep,” Haytham says. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission. I didn’t tell him who I was.”

Evie stares at him, then turns away, runs her hands through her hair, takes a few paces across the too-small room.

“I’m sorry,” she says, letting her hands fall. “I’m not angry with you. I just – it’s strange, hearing about people speaking to him as if he’s still alive.”

“I know,” Haytham says.

“What did he say?” she asks, meeting his eyes.

“All he wants is your happiness,” Haytham says. “If you were to remarry after his death, that happiness would be his only concern. Are you happy to be marrying Desmond?”

“I am,” Evie says. She kisses Haytham quickly on both cheeks and steps back to smile at him, her eyes oddly bright with tears. “Thank you, Haytham. I never thought...”

She shakes her head wordlessly, then falls into his arms. Haytham holds her, trying not to let it be known that he needs the comfort as much as she does.


End file.
